Away with the Faeries
by Lindenharp
Summary: James Hathaway is having a very strange week. James Hathaway/Robert Lewis. Fantasy AU. Warning: contains mention of the murder of a child. No graphic violence. Sex mentioned, but not explicit.
1. Chapter 1

James Hathaway is having a strange week. Not a bad one—though when your job centres around violence and death, you have a different definition of 'bad' to most people—but definitely strange. At first, it's mostly little things. On Monday, all of the biros in his desk drawer seem to contain green ink. A prank, no doubt. Fortunately, he discovers the substitution _before_ signing his name on the form he'd been about to submit to the Chief Super. No doubt Innocent would have had some pointed remarks about official police documents not being the appropriate place to express one's artistic side, or ask if he'd joined the cranks and lunatics of the green-ink brigade..

On Tuesday, the scraggly Christmas cactus on the office window-sill decides to burst into bloom, despite it being August. DS Latham from Fraud, a keen gardener, looks at it in awe. "What's your secret? Did you feed it something special?" James can only shrug. He doesn't even water the bloody thing, leaving that task to one of the night cleaners.

On Wednesday, they're eating sandwiches on a bench by the river when a swan climbs up the bank and stalks towards them. James tenses. An adult swan can inflict a fair amount of damage, even though the bit about breaking a man's bones is a myth. He's seen the results of some unpleasant encounters at Cambridge, usually involving rowers who came too close to nests. _But breeding season ended three months ago_. He holds his breath as the swan pauses less than a metre in front of them, and... bows. There's no other word for the movement. He bends his supple neck until his head is nearly touching the ground.

"Off with you," Lewis says softly. Before James can warn him not to antagonise the swan, he stands up and waves a hand. "Shoo." The swan turns, strutting back to the water. "Daft bird. Must be heat-addled."

"That was... odd," James says. It was more than odd, it was eerie. Almost like something out of the old tales about the Fae beloved by British folklorists, in which birds and beasts, behaving strangely, are revealed as portents or messengers. He'd been fascinated by stories of the Fae when he was a boy, especially those grounded in history, rather than 'once upon a time'. One of Bonnie Prince Charlie's more dramatic escapes from British troops was aided by a sudden thick fog supposedly raised by Fae magic. Dr John Dee, Elizabeth I's court astrologer, was alleged to be Fae or part-Fae, and an inventory of gifts to the Virgin Queen included 'a scarfe of greene silke set with Fae-wrought golde spangles'.

He's read so many theories over the years, most of which don't meet his standards of credibility, either as a policeman or a former academic. Margaret Murray wove the Fae into her bizarre theories about a British witch-cult, suggesting that they might be a special caste of priests and priestesses. James Frazer saw them as a symbol of the decline of primitive superstition. An 18th-century Bishop of Durham proclaimed that they were 'Gypsie tricksters' out to deceive good Christians. In 1902, Sabine Baring-Gould interviewed some 'rustick grandfers' who claimed to have seen the Good Folk on Dartmoor in their youth, but he admitted reluctantly that their memories had most likely been 'dimmed by time and distorted by ale'.

He shakes his head. The Fae, whatever they might be, have proved elusive for centuries. Archaeologists have explored supposed Fae hills with tools ranging from spades to metal-detectors to ground-penetrating radar, without success. The true believers on claim that the Fae use their magic to hide themselves from mortals. James isn't sure what to think. He definitely doesn't believe in magic; the idea is anathema to a rational, educated person. Still, he has long been fascinated by the notion that there could be an entire hidden society whose members live undetected beside ordinary people. He doesn't share any of these thoughts with Lewis, who will only roll his eyes and accuse James of reading too much Harry Potter.

On Thursday morning, a letter appears on Lewis's desk. James doesn't remember seeing it when he arrived, but when Lewis walks in a few minutes later it's beside his laptop: a stiff, cream-coloured envelope, face-down, and sealed with a disc of green wax. As James approaches, he glances curiously at the seal, but before he can make out any details, Lewis tucks the letter into his jacket and launches into a discussion of their current case.

Later that day, James returns from lunchtime errands to find Lewis talking to a stranger. The man, who tops James by a full two inches, is clad in an immaculate grey silk suit and a jade-green tie, and carries a leather briefcase that probably cost upwards of £500. The two men fall silent as soon as James walks in, but it's clear from their body language that the interrupted conversation had not been casual or friendly. "Sorry, am I interrupting?"

Lewis seems relieved. "You're all right. Mr Alveray is a solicitor. My uncle died, and he's... there are some things that have got to be sorted out."

"Matters of inheritance," Mr Alveray says curtly. He turns back to Lewis. "I will await your reply," he says, and sweeps out of the office without another word.

Belatedly, James realises that he's staring at the now empty doorway. "Sorry to hear about your uncle. Will you be taking leave to go to the funeral?"

"Will I what? No, no. There won't be a service. And to tell the truth, we didn't exactly get along."

 _And yet he left you an inheritance_. James's mind is filled with questions he can't ask. Lewis doesn't talk much about his family back in Newcastle, but James has the impression that they were respectable lower middle class people, and not likely to have a family solicitor who wears silk suits and custom-made shoes. Maybe this uncle earned his money on the wrong side of the law? That would explain the rift and Lewis's apparent reluctance to accept his inheritance.

Friday begins on a positive note. James finds a contradiction in two witness statements. It's not enough to crack the cold case they've been reviewing, but it's a step forward. At day's end, Lewis invites him over for an evening of takeaway, crap telly, and good beer. It's an invitation he's happy to accept. He's got to pick up a suit from the cleaners, so they agree that Lewis will head home and call in a takeaway order to Ming Palace, and James will collect it.

The scents of Kung Po chicken, prawns with garlic sauce, and Szechuan noodles filling his car are making him hungry, and he's happy to find a parking space right in front of Lewis's building, James holds the carrier bag with one hand and with the other fumbles for the key. Since he's expected, there's no point in ringing the bell and making Lewis come to the door. iRobbie. Call him Robbie/i. His governor has recently insisted that he stop being 'so bloody formal' and use his first name when they're off-duty. _"A man doesn't want to be sirred by his mate when he's having a beer and a laugh."_

 _Mate. Friend._ He's got mixed feelings about that. They've always had a close working relationship, but despite the frequent pub visits and occasional telly nights, James hadn't presumed to claim friendship with his governor. He likes the man, and has since their first day together, despite (or perhaps because of) the prickly aspects of his personality. But he also struggles with frustration. Buried deep inside James are desires that he barely lets himself acknowledge. He wants to be much more than a friend to Robbie Lewis, though he knows that's impossible.

 _Focus on the positive_ , he instructs himself sternly, turning the key in the lock. _Be grateful for what you have._

As the door opens, James wonders why Robbie has the telly on so loud. An impassioned voice declaims, "Will you not avert this peril, my lord?" _What on Earth is Robbie watching?_ Costume dramas are usually not to his taste.

A familiar, Geordie-accented voice replies, "I already told you that I can't help," and James's jaw drops. That's not the telly—it's an actual conversation. _But why in the name of God is someone calling Robbie Lewis 'my lord'? And who?_

The second question is answered as soon as he walks into the lounge. Mr Alveray, the supposed solicitor, is standing in the centre of the faded blue rug, wearing the exact same outfit as he was yesterday. The two men fall silent as James enters the room.

He does a quick assessment of the scene. Robbie is on his feet, frowning at Alveray. The solicitor doesn't look threatening or hostile; if anything, he seems lost, diminished.

Robbie gives a quick glance at James, then returns his attention to Alveray. "Just calm down, man. I'm sorry, but I won't change my mind."

Alveray clasps his hands together. "Please, my lord—"

"I am not your lord. I am not _anyone's_ lord," Robbie snaps. He straightens, and despite the difference in their heights, he seems to loom over the other man. "I want you gone. Don't come back."

The look of utter desperation on Alveray's face is so sharp that James finds himself shifting balance, leaning forward, in case he needs to rush forward and intervene.

In the event, his help isn't needed. The man's expression becomes impassive, and he turns on his heel and hurries out of the room. And though it's a calm summer night outside, as he opens the front door, an unexpected draught blows in, so strong that it flaps the pages of the newspaper on the coffee table.

"Good riddance," Robbie mutters. He looks at James, and sighs. "I reckon you're wondering what that was about."

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't burning with curiosity, but he can see that this is a deeply personal matter that Robbie is not eager to discuss. "Just tell me: are you in trouble? Can I help?"

Robbie's mouth curls into a faint smile. "Canny lad. No, I'm not in trouble. He was trying to drag me into someone else's trouble, but he can't do that without my consent. Which," he adds firmly, "he won't get."

"If you're sure..."

"I am, thanks. And I'm also sure I want my dinner. Step lively, now."

He follows Robbie into the kitchen, and sets the carrier bag on the table. Within minutes, they're tucking into their meal. The conversation is limited to "Pass the rice, please" and "Any prawns left?" Robbie seems quiet and subdued after his earlier burst of anger at the mysterious Alveray. James finds that his usual supply of glib chatter has dried up.

Things become more relaxed when they're settled on the sofa with a couple of bottles of Bridge. They spend a pleasant hour mocking an episode of a popular detective programme.

"How are there any people still left in that little village?" James asks. "They kill off two or three every week. You'd think the survivors would notice they're living in the murder capital of Great Britain, and relocate."

"And why has no one investigated that amateur so-called detective? A man who isn't a copper shouldn't be stumbling over that many dead bodies."

"Very suspicious," James agrees. By the time he leaves, he's in a much cheerier mood, but in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, all the questions he didn't ask swirl through his mind until he finally falls asleep.

* * *

Saturday is busy with errands, shopping, and in the evening, his band has a gig. He doesn't have much time to think about Lewis and his peculiar visitor, and he doesn't expect to see his governor until Monday morning. Naturally, his phone rings just after dawn on Sunday. There's been a body of a boy discovered at the edge of Wytham Woods.

It's an ugly case. All murders are, but ones involving children always more painful. Identification comes swiftly: Evan Wilson, aged 11, disappeared from his Summertown home the day before. The first round of interviews focuses their attention on Sid Conover, the new boyfriend of Joan Wilson, Evan's divorced mother. He's a broker of some kind, a big shot in the City, who glances too often at his gold Swiss watch.

Lewis is masterful in interview, sympathising with the difficulty of dealing with someone else's child. Boys that age can be a real handful. Moody and unpredictable. Running away is a common response to family problems. Fortunately, most of them come safely home. Is Sid aware of any issues between Evan and his mum? Any indications that he might have been playing around with drugs?

James knows that there were no needle marks on Evan's body, and that the tox screen came back negative.

It takes a while, but eventually Conover says something that contradicts an earlier answer. James jumps in: prodding, challenging. Lewis interjects with more questions. The familiar rhythm reminds James of rowing in a two-man shell, minds and bodies in perfect coordination.

"I didn't mean to do it."

As the admission slips out, James feels a fierce satisfaction, mixed with sorrow for the innocent life cut short for no good reason.

It's the beginning of the end. They lead Conover through a full account of Evan's death, from the initial argument to the dumping of the body after dark. The confession is laced with feeble excuses: the boy "disrespected" him, he only wanted to teach him a lesson... James is relieved when Conover is escorted to the custody suite and he and Lewis can escape the windowless interview room. There are still the initial reports, statements, and forms which must be completed before they can even think about leaving the nick.

The office is quiet, and not just because they're both concentrating on the paperwork. James is starting to feel the effect of his short night's sleep. Lewis is being stingy with his words, and the crease between his brows is getting progressively deeper. He's angry. It doesn't take a detective to figure out why. The murder of a child always hits harder than other deaths, and Sidney Conover is everything that Lewis hates in a suspect: rich, privileged, and completely unwilling to accept fault.

A little past 8:00 PM, Lewis switches off his computer. "Right. That's us done for the day." He looks James up and down. "Get yourself some real food and an early bed. And 9:00 will be soon enough to come in tomorrow. We've earned it."

"A pint first?" James suggests. He doesn't particularly want a drink, but it might do Lewis some good to relax at a pub. It's been a long time since he's seen his governor this shaken by a case.

Lewis shakes his head. "Thanks, no. I'm for home and bed. Good night."

They head outside together, then separate, each man to his own car. James pauses to light a cigarette, and he watches idly as Lewis pulls out of the car park and turns left. That's unexpected. The most direct route to his home is in the other direction, and so are most of the favourite takeaway places where he might go for a quick, easy meal. It's probably nothing, but... James climbs into his car and follows Lewis.

It's absurd, really. Lewis is a grown man and an experienced copper. He's dealt with the aftermath of far more horrific cases. He doesn't need his sergeant ( _friend_ , an internal voice whispers) trailing behind him like a fretful minder. So what if he wants to go for a bit of a drive after a long, stressful day? James ought to go home and leave Robbie be, but he can't help worrying. He drops back, letting two cars pass him, just as he was taught in the police driving course. No, he's not treating Lewis like a suspect—he's just trying to be discreet. No need to embarrass them both if everything's all right.

His concern grows when he sees that Lewis is heading towards Wytham Woods. It's nowhere near the spot where Evan Wilson's body was dumped, but still, it's a peculiar destination at twilight. _Is he meeting someone?_ James thinks again about the enigmatic and persistent Mr Alveray. What if he's persuaded Lewis to rendezvous with him?

Lewis's car pulls over. James continues forward another fifty metres around a bend in the road before doing the same. He jogs along the verge until he sees Lewis walking into the woods.

He slows, walking as quietly as possible, keeping Lewis just at the edge of sight. It's difficult, in the deepening night, but there's a three-quarter moon above, splashing pale, dappled light on the path ahead. He can also hear the faint sound of Lewis's sturdy shoes crunching on fallen twigs and leaves. The man is making no effort to be stealthy.

James pauses when the sound of footsteps stops. The typical woodland concerto of a summer night—bird calls, the buzz of insects, the rustling of small creatures going about their nocturnal business—suddenly falls silent. Only the thudding of his heart and the distant swoosh of traffic assure James that he hasn't gone deaf.

A new sound fills the silence. It could be rushing water, except that there is no stream nearby; or wind, but the air is still. James forces himself to continue up the path. After walking just ten metres, he freezes, trying to make sense of what he's seeing.

A venerable oak tree stands in the centre of a clearing. A miniature cyclone encircles it at a distance of four or five feet, the winds made visible by the leaves, sticks, and clods of earth they carry. _This isn't real. Can't be real._ Then he sees the man standing inside the calm eye of the storm, rigid back pressed against the oak's thick trunk.

"Robbie?"

The whirlwind stops immediately, dropping its payload into a rough ring on the ground.

"James?" Robbie gawks at him, as if _he's_ the one found doing something uncanny in a moonlit forest. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was concerned. I could see you were troubled by the case, and when I saw your car turn the wrong way..." He stops, not sure how to explain.

"You ifollowed/i me? Who do you think you are to stick your nose in my personal business?"

Under normal circumstances, James would have delivered a curt apology for intruding, then turned and walked away. These circumstances are far from normal. "I thought I was your friend," he snaps, and realises to his horror that a person far less observant than DI Lewis could surely hear the hurt mixed with anger in his voice.

Robbie sighs deeply. "Aye, that you are. Sorry, man."

"Are you okay? Can I—?" He stops, not sure what he meant to say or what he should say. "What happened?"

Robbie grimaces. "I'm all right, now. I was getting worked up over that bastard Conover, and I thought being with the trees would help." He looks ruefully at the circle of detritus surrounding him. "Lost my temper. And then I lost control of my magic."

"There's no such thing as magic," James replies automatically,

Even in the faint moonlight, James can recognise the familiar waggle of Lewis's brows. _'Sure of that, are you, Sergeant?'_ His governor waves a hand—much like when he shooed the swan back to the river—and the ring of dirt and leaves moves, spreading itself out until the area around the tree looks untouched. Even as James fumbles for words, because this can't be happening, Lewis says softly, "I reckon I owe you an explanation. Let's go back to mine, though. It's a long story, and this isn't the place."

* * *

They're sat on Robbie's sofa again, but with no beers in hand this time. James's mind is already jumbled and dizzied by what he saw earlier.

"The story begins with my mam, Betsy. She was born in a village west of Newcastle. Her dad was a leather-worker with too many bairns to feed, so when Mam was sixteen, she was hired as a kitchen maid at Kirkbride Manor, ten miles north of the Wall."

 _Hadrian's Wall_ , James's storehouse of historical trivia adds. He frowns. Why hadn't Betsy gone into Newcastle to seek work? In the years just before the Second World War, industry was booming, and factory jobs paid much better than domestic service.

"It was June, and she was to start work on the Quarter Day, so she set off on foot the day before."

"On foot? Sorry." Not surprising that a poor family didn't own a car, but surely there would have been a bus to take her at least part of the way?

"It was only ten miles," Robbie says. "She was a strong lass, and she was wearing shoes. She often told me how proud she was of those shoes—they were new-made, just for her. Her father gave the leather to the cobbler, so she shouldn't be ashamed before the gentry at the Manor."

James frowns. New shoes might be a necessary expense for a girl entering service in a stately home, but custom-made?

Robbie's voice has taken on the sing-song quality of an old, well-remembered bedtime story. "It was a hot day, and her feet ached, and she stopped more than once to slip off those new shoes and bathe her feet in the waters of a burn—a little stream. When she got hungry, she looked about for a place to sit. There were no trees nearby, but she saw a standing stone, taller than a tall man and three times as broad. She sat in its shade and unwrapped the food her mam had given her—half a loaf of stottie cake, filled with pease pottage. When she'd eaten, she decided to rest a little while before continuing on. And she fell asleep beside the standing stone of Matfen."

James feels a prickle across the nape of his neck, as if a cold draught was blowing. Obviously nothing happened, he tells himself. Robbie's mum lived to grow up, marry, and bring up at least two children: Robbie, and the brother he once mentioned.

"When she woke up, it was dark. The moon wasn't up, but she spied a bonfire in the distance, on the top of a hill."

The night before Quarter Day in June would be... "St John's Eve?"

Robbie nods. "Aye, it was Midsummer Eve. Mam reckoned that there'd be people at the fire who could set her on the right path. When she got nearer, she heard music playing and saw folk dancing around the fire." His eyes fix on empty air, and his lips curve into a gentle smile. "She said, 'They were tall and fair, and dressed grander than lords and ladies. I was afear'd to speak a word, but the harps and the horns and the flutes played so sweetly that it made me weep, and when the tallest lord leapt over the fire, my heart was so merry that I laughed out loud.'"

 _I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know this_ , James thinks, but Robbie's voice flows on, meandering gently like a Northumbrian burn, heading always to its inevitable destination. Young Betsy Tanner danced all night around the Midsummer fire. Just before dawn on Midsummer Day, she let the tall lord lead her to his dwelling inside the hill, and there she lay with him.

"I was born nine months later, on Lady Day." Robbie pauses. "The twenty-fifth of March, 1821."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Absurd. Impossible._ James stares at the man he thought he knew. Closer to 200 years than the 50-something he appears to be...wielding uncanny powers... not entirely human. What else has he been hiding? James feels a cold shiver go through him. In the days when the Fae were said to walk the land, sensible humans fled or hid themselves away.

"James, are you all right?"

He looks into those familiar eyes, the colour of a cloudless summer sky, and sees only concern. Shame floods through him, reddening his cheeks. Whatever else Robbie may be, he is James's governor, his mentor, his friend. "It's rather a lot to take in," he says, trying not to show the maelstrom of emotions inside him. _Robbie is a Fae. The Fae are myths._ _There's no such thing as magic. But I saw..._

The blue eyes are shadowed now. Robbie starts to rise from the sofa, mumbling something about tea.

 _You bloody fool!_ He forces himself to speak lightly. "The thing is, Robbie—you don't look a day over 100."

Robbie laughs. "I'll get the kettle going."

They continue the conversation in the kitchen over tea and cheese on toast.

"There's a lot that I can't tell you," Robbie says bluntly. "Some things I'm not allowed to speak of, and some... I honestly don't understand." He rubs his chin. "Never told anyone, other than Val, though I think Morse suspected something. There were a couple of times he looked at me like I was a bit of evidence that didn't fit. But he never said anything, never asked."

 _Maybe he didn't want to know._ From all that he's heard of DCI Morse, the man was a fierce rationalist, distaining anything that smacked of superstition. What would he have made of tonight's events in Wytham Woods? James still doesn't know what _he_ thinks of it. Nothing natural could have caused that pocket whirlwind. He's certain that Robbie isn't lying to him-or at least, that he he's telling what he believes to be the truth. "I don't believe in magic," he says apologetically.

"All right," Robbie replies, as if he'd said that he preferred Stilton to Cheddar.

"All right?" James echoes. "You're not going to try to explain? To convince me?" There _must_ be an explanation, even if it involves alternate dimensions, mutants with psychic powers, and dodgy pseudo-science worthy of _Doctor Who_.

"Magic can't be explained. There aren't spells to memorise or wands to wave or any of that Harry Potter mumbo-jumbo. All I can tell you is that it's part of me, and I can feel it, the same as I can feel my heart beating." Robbie's lips twist into a wry smile. "I don't expect you to understand."

 _"Behold, I tell you a mystery."_ The verse comes unbidden to his mind and refuses to go away. James's faith is a shaky, fragile thing these days, but he still believes in God, and that some things are beyond the grasp of the human mind—even a prideful, Cambridge-educated mind. "Maybe I won't understand... but I want to know."

"All right. To begin with, I don't know how old I am." Robbie holds up a hand to forestall any questions. "I told you when I was born, but time flows oddly Underhill. The Fae age more slowly than humans, and live longer. And there's no hard and fast rule for those of us who are _bleóndan_." He sees James's frown. "It means 'mixed' in the old speech."

 _If he speaks Old English, I suppose that explains why he did an O Level in German_ , James thinks, and wonders if he should be worried that he finds the idea reasonable.

Robbie explains that he visited the outside world regularly, sometimes even venturing into Newcastle. "I was a little lad when the Queen came to open the bridge. You could hear the 21-gun salute from miles away. That was in '49."

James opens his mouth to protest that Elizabeth didn't become Queen until '52, then shuts it abruptly. _1849\. He's talking about Victoria._

"And I was a lad still when me Mam died of old age," Robbie says simply. "They were kind to me—they are always kind to bairns, having so few among them—but I started to feel drawn to her world. I wanted to know what it was like to live under the sky."

How had he done it? How had he made the transition to the modern world?

"You'll have heard tales of changelings?" Robbie continues.

He has. They were supposedly Fae infants—or Fae creations—left as substitutes for stolen human children.

"First off, the Fae don't steal children, any more than the Roma or Travellers do. As for the changelings, none of them were full Fae—they were either _bleóndan_ who didn't want to remain Underhill, or couldn't thrive there because they were too human. There have always been mortal families who were allied to the Fae, and were willing to take in a child." The Lewis family had been one of these. They gave young Robbie a place in their home and their hearts. They became his parents, and their infant son his brother.

Once he was living in the human world, Robbie began to age normally. He became a teenager, then a young man. "And then I met Val," he says simply. "I told her the truth about me, and she believed me, even though I couldn't prove any of it."

"You couldn't—" James waves his hand in a wide circle.

"What? No. When I made my choice, they bound my magic, not that I ever had much." Robbie shrugs. "Just some affinity with Earth and Air. It's why I gave up the allotment. Too frustrating to try growing plants when I couldn't feel them."

"But if your magic was bound, then how—? Tonight?"

"A binding will break when the one who made it dies. Last Sunday..."

"Your uncle?"

"Actually, he was my great-grandfather," Robbie confesses. "Dunno how old he was, but he used to complain about the foreigners having mucked up the countryside."

James hazards a guess. It would have been seven or eight centuries before Robbie's birth, but... "The Normans?"

"Those johnny-come-latelies? Nah, he meant the Romans."

"Of course," James replies dryly. Those pesky Romans, building forts and walls all over England's green and pleasant land. _The Fae are the original nimbys._..

"Alveray—you'll have guessed by now he's Fae—came to tell me about it, officially, but I already knew. I was watching the late news on the telly, and all of a sudden, I could feel my magic again. It was like I'd been half-asleep, and woke up." His face brightens with the memory. "Of course, not having used it in years, I was a bit rusty. Took me a few days to get it under control."

 _That_ explains most of the odd happenings from the past week. The biggest one, though... James hesitates, then plunges in. "What did Alveray want? He said something about an inheritance?"

Robbie pulls a face. "Aye. See, the Fae are long-lived, but they're not immortal. They can die, they can be killed. And some of them..." He cocks his head, seeming to search for the right words. "Some of them go into the Deeps. Underhill is strange, but there are parts of it that are beyond imagining. Or so I've been told. Humans and _bleóndan_ can't enter the Deeps without going mad, and even the younger Fae won't risk it. Some of the older ones venture down, and they come back changed. Most of them won't talk about it. There was an old _scop_ , a minstrel, who sang and played the lyre so beautifully that he could make you weep. He was in the Deeps for three days, and when he returned, he wouldn't sing or play a note. When they asked him why, he said that the music of the Deeps was still in his ears, and he was afraid that any lesser song would drive it out and that would be a loss he couldn't bear."

 _Is this the source of the legend of the sirens' song?_ James wonders. How many human myths sprang from distorted retellings of the doings of the Fae?

"Some who go into the Deeps don't return, either because they died there, or because they wanted to see what lies at the end—if there _is_ an end. My father was one who went down and never came back."

"I'm sorry," James begins, but Robbie shakes his head.

"I never knew him. I was just a baby when he left. My mam said he intended to return. Any road, he's gone. _His_ father was killed in a duel with a rival. The elders who remember him say it was when the Normans were building the New Castle. Neither of them had brothers," Robbie continues. "Like I said, bairns are rare among the Fae. So, when my great grandad died..."

"That left you as his last male descendant?"

"Aye, that I am." Robbie pauses. "And he was the _Cyning_ of Underhill."

It's been a long time since James studied Beowulf in the Sixth Form. They read a modern translation, but the teacher played them a brief excerpt from a recording, so they could hear what the original sounded like. There'd been a vocabulary list of Old English words with modern cognates. James can only remember a few: _wyrm_ , meaning serpent; _stol_ , seat or stool; and _cyning_ —king.

He gawks at Robbie. "You're the King of the Fae?"

The other man glares at him. "No, I am not. I told Alveray that I would never go back Underhill, not even to visit, and certainly not to sit on the bloody throne." He lets out a long breath. "I was gobsmacked when I read his letter. Couldn't believe that they'd ever accept a _bleónd_ as king, especially one who hasn't been Underhill since he was a kid."

"If there aren't any other candidates..."

"There are a few, from two other kindreds—what you might call noble families."

It's somehow reassuring to learn that prejudice and political squabbles are not purely human failings. He wonders if Alveray's main concern is maintaining the rightful bloodline, avoiding internecine strife, or being the power behind the throne for an inexperienced ruler. If the latter, he'd be in for an unpleasant surprise: Robbie Lewis will obey those he respects, but he's no one's puppet. Still, it's a moot point. "Thank you for trusting me with this," he says. "You haven't told your children?"

Robbie shakes his head. "No reason to tell them. They're both as human as their mum. Mark would just think I was pulling his leg. Lyn would fret and want to put me in hospital to be tested for brain tumours and dementia and whatnot."

"And Dr Hobson?"

"Laura? No. I considered telling her once, when I thought that we... but, things didn't work out that way. Just as well, I suppose."

James nods. He'd often wondered if the long-time friendship between Robbie and Laura would ever deepen into romance. Though part of him is sorry that Robbie hasn't found the loving relationship he deserves, another part is secretly pleased. He is the only living person (only living _human_ , he corrects) who knows Robbie's secret. It's a gift—one that he will cherish. 

* * *

After "That Night", as James thinks of it, there are some changes. Robbie gives up his flat and buys a small house with a large garden. He needs to be around green things, he explains to James, and wants more space and privacy than he could have in an allotment or behind a block of flats.

There's no sign of Lewis's... talent when they're at work (James refuses to use the M-word). If this were a television show about a half-Fae detective, he muses, Lewis would solve cases by interviewing the victim's dog, catch fleeing suspects with the aid of conveniently-appearing bramble bushes, or distract colleagues with sudden draughts that blow papers off desks. Even in the seclusion of his own home, he rarely resorts to his gifts, except in the garden.

The garden is not elaborate or exotic, and probably wouldn't win a Britain's Best Garden award. There's a vegetable patch and several flower beds with cheerful, humble blooms. It's a completely unremarkable English garden, except that when Robbie took possession of the house, there was only a tidy lawn and a box hedge. James knows that for a fact, because he went with Robbie to the garden centre and helped transfer the many small pots of starter plants into Robbie's car, and then to his back garden.

Three weeks later, James gapes at a colourful riot of daisies and sunflowers and geraniums, at tomato plants heavy with plump, scarlet fruit, and runner-bean vines climbing to the tops of eight-foot tall bamboo canes. He turns to a grinning Robbie. "Did you—?" He wiggles his fingers at the nearest flower bed.

"I might have had a word," Robbie admits. "Just asked them to do their best, and they obliged me." He adds, "You'll take some tomatoes home with you. They've been enthusiastic, and there's only so much that one man can eat."

James has many opportunities to admire the garden. The house has a second bedroom, which Robbie has designated as a guest room for "when our Lyn comes to visit". Lyn has not yet been able to visit, but James has spent more than one night on the comfortable guest bed, which is equipped with an extra-long mattress.

Another thing is different since That Night. James knows that his governor has regarded him as a friend for some time. Now, though, Robbie seems warmer, more open. James supposes that it must be because his secret is no longer an invisible barrier between them. Sometimes, when Robbie claps him on the shoulder or pokes him in the ribs while making a joke, James wonders if his friend's unleashed gifts include the ability to read thoughts and desires. Does he know how often James has secretly longed for his touch? Surely not. If Robbie knew what James was thinking, there'd be an end to the companionable nights.

One evening in mid-September, they're watching football on the telly, when the match is interrupted by a news bulletin. There's been an earthquake in Northumberland. Windows rattled in a 20-kilometre radius, and though no injuries were caused by the quake, an elderly woman in Hexham was taken to hospital with heart palpitations. There are hundreds of earthquakes each year in the UK, the presenter explains, but only two or three are strong enough to be felt by humans. This earthquake is notable, not only because of its strength, but because it occurred in an area of Britain which is not usually seismically active. The camera pans in on a map of northern England with a superimposed arrow showing the epicentre, before switching to a pair of talking heads from the British Geological Survey.

Beside him, James hears a sharp intake of breath. "Bloody idiots!"

James wonders what Robbie has against the scientists before deciding that he must mean the news people who chose to interrupt the match for a geological oddity. Then he hears a string of guttural words. None of them was on the Beowulf vocabulary list, but he doesn't need a translation to understand the fury behind them. "Robbie?"

His friend's face is pale, eyes wide and dark. "It's war," he whispers. "The bloody idiots are having a civil war, and they'll tear Underhill apart if they're not stopped. I've got to go." 

* * *

James shivers and wishes he was wearing something heavier than his Cambridge Rowing hoodie. The weather has been mild, even warm for September, but a Northumbrian hillside before dawn is not exactly Bournemouth Beach. He shifts his guitar case from one hand to the other. His duffel is sitting in the boot of his car, as it's too early to check into the B&B. He's _not_ leaving his baby unattended in a car again.

Beside him, Robbie is pacing back and forth. "You've got all the envelopes?"

"Yes, I have," James confirms for the ninth or tenth time.

"And you remember the one for Lyn—"

"Is to be delivered in person. I know, Robbie. I promise, I'll do everything just as you asked, _if_ it becomes necessary." He'll wait at least the full two weeks of their leave is up before distributing the sealed letters to Innocent, Dr Hobson, and Lyn and Mark. Robbie will return; he _has_ to believe that.

He scans the area. There's no one in sight. His car is parked half a kilometre away, on a narrow, weed-choked lane. This is not the spot where Robbie's mum entered Underhill all those long years ago. That place is now heavily built up, and the nearby standing stone is a tourist attraction. He's not sure if this hill is a portal to Underhill, or just a rendezvous spot. All Robbie would say is that someone would meet them here. No, meet _him_ here. Robbie hadn't wanted James to accompany him on this journey. _"You stay in Oxford, man. It'll be safer."_

James had won out with a combination of logic and sheer stubbornness. How was Robbie planning to get to his destination? A taxi ride to the middle of nowhere would be almost as suspicious as an abandoned car. How would he get back when he'd completed his peace-keeping mission? Even if Robbie had a working mobile, James couldn't collect him from a place he'd never been to in the middle of nowhere. In the end, Robbie had surrendered, after a certain amount of token grumbling. He made it clear that James could not go through the portal with him, as humans were no longer permitted Underhill.

He's not sure if he feels more disappointed—or relieved. He had harboured secret fantasies of walking beside Robbie through the vast and wondrous caverns of Underhill. Of lending him support and comfort, being his anchor to the human world. And he had suffered nightmares about succumbing to unreal fears and delusions, being a burden rather than a help, embarrassing Robbie before his father's people.

"Greetings, my lord."

James whirls around. Three people are standing ten feet away. He recognises Alveray. Instead of the elegant grey suit he wore in Oxford, the tall Fae is clad in country tweeds. The shorter man beside him is dressed like a farm hand, but his snug jeans and immaculate blue cotton work shirt look more like the product of a bespoke tailor than M&S, and his gleaming leather boots have never taken a single step on a farmyard or plowed field. Dark, intelligent eyes survey them from beneath a mop of chestnut curls. Alvarey introduces him as Trenus, and he greets Robbie with a low bow.

The third Fae is a woman, as tall as James. Her glossy raven-wing hair is coiled atop her head in a complicated braid, with a strand of pearls woven into it. A sleeveless white linen sheath flows to mid-calf. Her face is a mask of serenity, giving nothing away. " _Waes thu hael, Hreodbeord Cyning._ "

Robbie's lips tighten with annoyance at being called 'king', but he nods his head and replies, " _Waes thu hael, Winflaed Hlaefdige_."

James notes with private amusement that his friend speaks Old English with a Geordie accent. Robbie must know the Fae woman from his youth, as he called her by name without an introduction. He also notes that all three Fae are ignoring him. No, that's not quite right. They aren't seeing him. He's invisible, or at least, irrelevant.

Alveray glances, not at James, but at the guitar case in his hand, then turns back to Robbie. "Will you bring your _scop_ , my lord?"

James's heart pounds wildly. It's possible for him to go Underhill? If filling the role of royal minstrel means that he can remain with Robbie, he'll gladly play "Greensleeves" until his fingers bleed.

"He's not coming." Robbie's voice is quiet, but there's a roughness in it that reminds James of a tiger's soft growl or the distant rumble of thunder.

Trenus gestures at James and says something in Old English. Alveray chuckles; Winflaed frowns, as if she smells something unpleasant. Is it the joke she disapproves of, or James himself?

"I said, he's not coming." There's power in that voice now—something stronger and more primal than DI Lewis's usual tone of command. He snaps out several curt sentences in Old English that have Alveray and Trenus bowing low and murmuring apologies. Robbie holds them with his gaze for what must feel like a very long moment before releasing them with a nod. "Right. Let's get a move on." Then he half-turns, and his look softens. "James, lad..."

James isn't interested in the explanation. Robbie lied. He _could_ bring James Underhill; he simply doesn't want to. Still, he won't undermine Robbie's authority or sacrifice his own remaining scraps of dignity by protesting. "It's all right, Robbie. I know you've got work to do. Safe journey."

Now those too-knowing eyes are holding _him_ in place, studying him. He can't read the emotion behind them.

"Ah, sod it," Robbie blurts out. He claps his hands on James's shoulders, pulls him forward, and kisses him. Just as swiftly, he pulls away, and strides towards the waiting Fae. "Let's go." And within three beats of James's wildly pounding heart, Robbie and the three Fae vanish from sight.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

James puts his guitar back in its case, and rummages in his rucksack, pulling out a thick sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper, a large apple, and a flask of coffee. Mrs Keeling, his landlady, has been very accommodating. She's used to making packed lunches for the walkers and birdwatchers that fill her B&B in the summer, and she's happy to do so for 'the musical gentleman from Oxford'. He's fallen into a pattern. Every morning, after breakfast, he takes his rucksack, his guitar, and a folding camp chair out to the spot where he last saw Robbie. He practices on his guitar until lunchtime: pieces for his band, scales, arpeggios, and fingering exercises. After eating, he goes for a brisk walk, choosing a circular route that brings him back to his starting point. He meets no one on these rambles.

The rest of the afternoon he spends playing his guitar. No exercises, just music. He lets his heart and his fingers choose the tunes, from Bach to Segovia to Jimmy Page. But at least once each day he finds himself plucking the insipid melody of "Greensleeves". He doesn't sing it, but over and over, the opening line echoes in his mind: _Alas my love, you do me wrong.._.

 _Damn you, Robbie Lewis!_ It's only during these afternoon music sessions that he allows himself to think, really think, about Robbie and the contradictions of their last moments together. _He rejected me. And then he kissed me._

After a great deal of soul-searching, James concludes that it's the lie that bothers him most. He can think of various possible reasons why Robbie might not want him Underhill, ranging from political machinations to vagaries of Fae royal protocol. The most likely is that he's protecting James from some perceived danger. But why lie about it? Robbie is one of the most straightforward, plain-speaking men he knows. He's certainly capable of falsehood, but white lies to avoid hurt feelings are not his style.

He thinks about Trenus, and the joking comment he'd made. James hadn't understood a word of it, but based on Robbie's reaction, Trenus must have said something about James going Underhill. Perhaps Trenus had read James's hidden thoughts and hopes and shared them with Robbie. _Oh God, was the kiss just a lie of another sort? A gesture of pity?_ The kiss had been fierce and glorious, had seared his soul with its intensity, but if it wasn't real...

His shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. If the kiss sprang from Robbie's true desires, there should have been some indication before this. If it was a lie, surely Robbie had to know that his deception would be revealed when he returned from Underhill. _Unless he didn't expect to return_... No. He refuses to accept that. Robbie will return. He will return to the family he loves. To the job to which he's devoted so many years. To his cosy home and bountiful garden. To his friends. _To me_. Robbie will return because he damn well owes James an explanation for that kiss. 

* * *

At twilight on the seventh day of his vigil, James goes through the now-familiar routine of packing up his things. He puts his guitar into its case, folds the camp chair, and shoves sundry items into his rucksack. For no reason that he can name, he feels reluctant to leave the hillside. He should go—the sun is below the horizon, and the air is growing chill. Still, there will be light for a little longer, and he's got a torch with him. _No need to rush_.

Without warning, the ground beneath him moves. At first it's just a vibration, like the dance floor of a crowded club, but utterly silent. Within a few seconds, it's shaking like a Tube train going too fast around a corner, and there aren't any handrails to steady him. James staggers backwards. He feels himself about to fall, and the only thing he can do is to throw his weight forward, so he lands on an empty patch of ground and not on his guitar or other belongings. For the longest half-minute of his life he lies face down, splayed fingers clawing into the dirt. When the earth stills, he remains where he is. _There might be aftershocks_ , he tells himself. The truth is, he's not sure his trembling limbs will support him.

"James?"

He raises his head and stares. "Robbie?" The man standing three paces away looks like Lewis, though the Robbie Lewis he knows wouldn't be caught dead in a pale blue silk shirt and tight black breeches. And there's something else that isn't quite right...

Robbie rushes forward and drops to his knees beside James. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," James replies, not entirely sure he's telling the truth. "The earthquake knocked me down, that's all."

"Earthquake?" Strong hands pull him to his feet. "James, what the hell are you doing here?"

It's his turn to sound bewildered. "Waiting for you."

"Waiting? After all this time?"

"It's only been seven days." Did Robbie really expect James to give up on him so quickly?

"It's been a year."

Gobsmacked, James stares at his friend. Now he realises what was off—Robbie's hair has grown long, and is neatly tied at the nape of his neck with a strip of black leather. _"Time flows oddly Underhill."_ He tries to gather his scattered wits. "But you've come back. Does that mean that everything is all right?"

"It's been sorted, yeah." Robbie rubs his forehead. "Look, can we get out of here? I'm knackered."

James picks up his things and leads the way. Once they're in the car, he starts the engine but doesn't shift into gear. "Err... where?"

There's a long silence. Robbie stares down at his feet. He's wearing tall boots made of soft black leather, fastened with silver buckles.

"Are you hungry? There's a chippy in the village, and a halfway-decent Italian place that does takeaway. Or we could just go to my B&B. There should be another room available..."

"It doesn't matter," Robbie tells his boots. "Not really hungry, any road." The B&B, then. James reaches for the gear stick. "I didn't expect to see you here," Robbie adds.

His hand falls away. "I won't pry," James says stiffly.

For the first time since they got into the car, Robbie turns to look at him. "That's not what I meant. I just wasn't expecting to see you right away. It's been so long for me that I thought you'd be back in Oxford. Thought I'd have time to work out what to say." He takes a deep breath. "Look, I know I bollocksed things up before I left. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to talk to me, but I hope you'll listen."

James nods. "I'll listen."

"I was afraid. I knew that if you found out humans could still go Underhill, you'd want to come."

"It's not as though I could enter without your permission." _What did you think I would do? Make a scene?_

"That's what I was afraid of—that I'd give in to the temptation to bring you along."

"And I would have been a liability." James is proud of himself for saying it so calmly.

"What? No!" Robbie's eyes are wide and disbelieving. "Never. You'd have been a big help. Can't tell you how many times I wished I'd had you with me. Someone to be a sounding-board. Someone I could really trust."

 _Why didn't you?_ The words won't come out, but James suspects they're written on his face.

"I couldn't risk it." He answers James's question before it's asked. "Oh, you'd have been safe enough, as long as you stayed away from the Deeps. No one would've dared lay a hand on you." The fierce glint in his eyes is echoed in his dagger-sharp tone.

"But?" James prompts.

"Do you know that me mam went home once, to visit?" Robbie stares out of the windscreen at something that only he can see. "I was just a little bairn, but she told me about it, later. No one in the village recognised her, and not just because she was dressed as a fine lady, riding a coal-black mare. No one knew her, because Betsy the tanner's daughter had disappeared fifty years before."

There are accounts like that in the tales that James has read. A young fiddler, enticed Underhill to play for the Fae court, awakening on a cold hillside the next morning with a bag of gold—and the long, white beard and aching joints of an old man. A pretty maiden, dancing all night in a circle of Fae, discovering the next day that she is unchanged, but her parents are dead and her lover married another girl twenty years ago. They provided suspenseful reading for young James on a winter's night. Hearing this tale, told by Lewis in a flat, matter-of-fact voice, is more like reading a cold-case file about a tragic crime.

"It was a year for me, and a week for you," Robbie continues, "but it could have been the other way around. I was surprised that it only took a year to negotiate a truce. It could have been five years, or twenty. And if you'd come with me—God help me, but I'm a selfish bastard. I don't know if I'd been able to let you go."

 _Maybe I wouldn't have wanted you to let me go._ "You kissed me!" he says, and it's as much accusation as question.

Robbie grimaces. "Like I said, selfish. I didn't know if I'd see you again, or if you'd want to see me when I returned. And I thought, let me have this one memory to take with me." His head droops. "You've every right to be angry with me. I knew it was wrong. Should've asked you first, but there was no time and it wasn't a conversation I wanted to have in front of witnesses. And I thought I knew—hoped I knew—what you would say."

James tries to untangle his feelings. "I am angry with you," he says evenly, "because that was a conversation we should have had a long time ago." He takes a deep breath. "For the record, I would have said yes."

"And if I asked you now?" Robbie searches his face for clues.

He shrugs. It's not kind, but he's still angry. "One way to find out."

Robbie Lewis has many flaws, but no one has ever called him a coward. "James... may I kiss you?"

"I think I'd rather kiss you," James says, and he leans forward and claims Robbie's mouth with an urgency fuelled by seven days of worry and anger—and six years of suppressed desire. The memory of their first kiss, a week (or a year) ago, had kept him awake on more than one night. That was a faint shadow compared to this. Robbie tastes of green and growing things, of hazelnuts and wine made from wild berries, of mountain winds and mossy springs. His arms wrap around James's shoulders, sturdy as an oak. _I could stay like this forever._

The earth moves. It takes James a moment to realise what's happening, that the shaking of the car has nothing to do with the running engine. He jerks upright. "Robbie, are you doing this?"

"Me? No." Robbie looks as bewildered as James feels. "You said there was an earthquake just before I came out from Underhill?"

"Yes. It knocked me over."

"That'll have been from the portal locking. They've decided to close off Underhill for a century or so. This must be an aftershock." He frowns. "We should be going. I don't want to be caught snogging like a teenager by a busload of geologists."

James grumbles wordlessly, but he can see Robbie's point. The car jolts into motion. "I'll take you to the B&B, and then I'll drive to Rothbury and get you something to wear. I assume you don't want to walk down the high street dressed like that."

Robbie pulls a face. "I was in such a hurry to leave that I forgot to change back into normal clothes after the wedding."

"The wedding?"

"Aye, the wedding of Lucanus and Merewyn, King and Queen of Underhill. The Fae are an old-fashioned people, so we sealed the peace in an old-fashioned way."

James raises a brow, though perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. Alliance marriages are still practiced among humans, even in the twenty-first century. Scarlett Mortmaigne is only one example. He hopes this couple will fare better. "We can toast their happiness at the pub tonight."

"They'll do well enough. They're good kids," Robbie says, smiling, and James wonders how many centuries old the 'kids' are.

By the time they reach the B&B, James has a story ready for Mrs Keeling about a phone call from a friend in distress, a fancy dress party, a mixup with taxis, and lost luggage. If the landlady finds his explanation unbelievable, it doesn't show on her smiling face. The shops will be closed by the time he can drive to Rothbury, but she has a few items of clothing left behind by other guests that should fit well enough. There are no available rooms, she explains, because they've been booked by out-of-town relatives come to attend little Michael Fogerty's christening. But if Mr Hathaway doesn't mind sharing with his friend...

Mr Hathaway doesn't mind at all. Mr Lewis is also agreeable to the arrangement. 

* * *

James lies on his back, not touching Robbie, but close enough to feel the warmth of his naked body, which smells of soap, and of sex and sweat. _"It's late,"_ the older man had said, _"And you've worn me out. I'll take another shower in the morning."_

James refrained from pointing out that it was past midnight, and therefore technically morning. "I'm curious about one thing."

Robbie chuckles. "Only one? That earthquake must've really shaken your brain."

"What did Trenus say? Just before you left, he made a joke of some sort. And you were angry with him."

"James, that was a whole year ago," Robbie protests, but James notices that he doesn't claim to have forgotten. He waits. Robbie fixes his eyes on the ceiling. "He said... 'You should bring your scop Underhill, lord king, because he clearly wishes to entertain you with more than one instrument.'" What little James can see of his lover's face is very pink.

"He was quite right." And with a mischievous grin, James rolls over onto his side and reaches for Robbie, ready to demonstrate—again—just how entertaining he can be when he sets his mind to it.

\- THE END -


End file.
